The silence after Maeve’s exile is heavier than any storm.
Not the hush of aftermath, not the stillness of a battle won—but the quiet before the next strike. The kind that hums in the bones, in the wards, in the very air of the Aerie as it shifts position over the Black Sea, cloaked in illusion, its obsidian spires cutting through low-hanging clouds like claws. I feel it in the way the corridors seem to stretch longer, the shadows deeper, the glances sharper. Even the wind through the mountain passes sounds like a whisper now.
She survived.
But she’s not done.
I don’t say it out loud. Don’t voice the fear coiled in my chest like a serpent. But Kaelen feels it. I know he does. The bond hums between us—warm, steady, alive—like a second heartbeat, syncing with mine, pulsing in time with every breath, every step, every unspoken thought. He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t ask. Just watches me from the corner of his eye as we walk through the eastern wing, his presence a wall of heat and muscle, his gold eyes scanning the shadows like a predator.
“You’re thinking too loud,” he says, voice low.
“I’m not thinking at all.”
“Liar.”
I don’t answer. Just keep walking, my boots echoing against the slate, my storm-gray dress simple, unadorned, my hair pulled back, my magic coiled tight beneath my skin. But inside, I’m unraveling.
Because Maeve lost.
And yet, she didn’t break.
She stood there, in the testing chamber, her hand on her stomach, her eyes black with fury, and she laughed. Soft. Cold. Like ice cracking. And she said, “You’ll never be free of me.”
And then she looked at me.
And she said, “You’ll never be enough.”
And I believed her.
Not because I think Kaelen would go back to her. Not because I doubt the bond. But because I know how these games are played. I’ve seen it before—vampires who trade in whispers, in half-truths, in the slow erosion of trust. And Maeve isn’t done. She’ll find another way. Another lie. Another weapon.
And this time, it won’t be about a child.
It’ll be about me.
“We should move on Cassian,” I say, stopping at the threshold of the war room. “Before she regroups. Before they both do.”
Kaelen turns to me, his gaze sharp, his voice rough. “We don’t have proof.”
“We have the ring.”
“Circumstantial.”
“We have the real vote.”
“Hidden.”
“Then we make it public.”
He steps closer, his body pressing into mine, his breath hot against my neck. “And if we’re wrong? If we move too soon? The Council fractures, Torrent. The Silk Courts whisper. The Beast Courts growl. And if we lose this vote—”
“Then we burn,” I say, tilting my chin up. “But we burn *together*.”
His breath hitches.
And then—
He pulls me into his arms.
Not to kiss. Not to claim.
Just to *hold* me.
My body molds against his, my head resting on his chest, his breath warm against my neck. The bond hums—steady, warm, alive. I close my eyes, breathing him in—pine and ash and wildness.
And for the first time since I walked into this place with a knife at my throat—
I don’t feel like an assassin.
I feel like a woman who’s just realized the enemy isn’t the man she thought he was.
And maybe—
Just maybe—
He was never the enemy at all.
And then—
Silas appears in the doorway.
Not rushing. Not frantic. But with that quiet, observant stillness that means something’s wrong.
“Kaelen,” he says, voice calm. “You need to see this.”
—
The infirmary is a vault of silver and glass, its walls lined with containment fields, its air thick with the scent of antiseptic and old magic. The healers move in silence, their hands gloved, their faces masked, their voices low as they tend to the wounded from a recent skirmish in the Carpathians. But Silas doesn’t lead us to the beds.
He leads us to the archives.
A narrow chamber behind the main hall, its shelves lined with vials of blood, each labeled with a name, a date, a species. The Council keeps records—of lineage, of purity, of threat. And someone has been tampering with them.
“Two hours ago,” Silas says, stepping aside, “a healer found this.”
He holds up a vial.
Clear glass.
Dark red liquid.
And on the label—
Torrent – Hollow Moon Coven – Hybrid – Tainted Blood.
My breath stops.
“It’s not mine,” I say, voice low.
“No,” Silas says. “It’s synthetic. Lab-made. But good. Too good. The magic signature is close—close enough to pass a basic scan.”
Kaelen’s jaw tightens. “Who has access?”
“Only senior healers. And one visitor.”
“Maeve.”
Silas nods. “She was here yesterday. Claimed she needed a tonic for her… condition.”
I laugh. Short. Bitter. “She’s not even pregnant.”
“But someone might believe she is,” Kaelen says, turning to me. “And if they believe she was carrying my heir, and they find this—”
“Then they’ll believe I poisoned her,” I finish.
The room goes still.
Because he’s right.
If someone finds this vial—if they test it and find traces of wolfsbane, of silver-laced venom, of anything that could harm a developing hybrid fetus—then the story writes itself.
The assassin tried to kill the High Alpha’s child.
The hybrid murdered her rival in cold blood.
The fated mate was never fated—she was a saboteur from the start.
And the Council will believe it.
Not because they’re stupid.
But because they want to.
“We destroy it,” I say, reaching for the vial.
“No,” Kaelen says, stopping me. “We use it.”
“How?”
He turns to Silas. “Gather the Council. All twelve. Meet us in the Chamber in one hour.”
Silas hesitates. “You’re going to expose her?”
“No.” Kaelen’s gold eyes burn. “I’m going to *trap* her.”
—
The Council Chamber is colder today.
Not in temperature—the hearths burn low, the air thick with the scent of pine and iron—but in tone. The twelve thrones are filled, the advisors silent, the guards rigid. The air hums with tension, the weight of accusation pressing down like a storm front.
I stand at the center of the ring, ten paces from Kaelen, who sits in the High Alpha’s throne, his posture straight, his face a mask of ice. To my left, Cassian rises from his seat, his silver robes shimmering, his smile sharp as a blade.
But he’s not alone.
At the edge of the ring, half in shadow, stands Maeve.
Not in crimson.
Not in violet.
But in black.
Her gown clings to her like mourning, her face pale, her eyes wide with something I can’t name.
Fear?
Triumph?
Both?
She shouldn’t be here. She’s been exiled. Stripped of rank. Barred from all proceedings.
And yet—
She’s smiling.
“My fellow Councilors,” Kaelen says, his voice cutting through the silence like a blade, “we gather today not in unity, but in crisis. Evidence has come to light—forged blood, tampered records, a plot to frame Torrent of the Hollow Moon for the murder of a child that never existed.”
Murmurs ripple through the Chamber.
Cassian’s smile doesn’t waver. “Baseless accusations. You have no proof.”
“I have proof,” Kaelen says, nodding to Silas.
Silas steps forward, holding the vial.
“This,” he says, “was found in the infirmary archives. Labeled as Torrent’s blood. But it is synthetic. Created to mimic her magic signature. And if tested for toxins—” He pauses. “It will show traces of wolfsbane. Silver. Venom. Enough to kill a developing hybrid fetus.”
The Chamber erupts.
Gasps. Whispers. A few Councilors hiss in outrage.
“A setup,” Kaelen continues. “Designed to make it appear that Torrent attempted to murder Maeve Thorne’s unborn child. A child that was never real. A lie from the beginning.”
Cassian’s eyes flick to Maeve.
Just once.
But I see it.
The flicker. The connection.
They’re working together.
“You expect us to believe this?” Cassian says, voice smooth. “That the High Alpha’s *mate*—a woman who came here to kill him—is innocent? That this vial is a fake? That the blood test was wrong?”
“I expect you to believe the magic,” Kaelen says, standing. “And I will prove it.”
He turns to me.
“Torrent,” he says, voice low. “Your blood.”
I don’t hesitate.
I step forward, roll up my sleeve, and offer my wrist to the lead blood-seer.
She takes it, her gloved fingers pressing against my pulse, her voice low as she chants. The magic rises—soft at first, then sharp, then blinding. A thread of storm-blue light spirals from my wrist, twisting in the air like lightning, pulsing with raw, untamed power.
“This is her true signature,” the seer says. “Unaltered. Unfaked. And it does not match the vial.”
Cassian’s jaw tightens.
“But that doesn’t prove she didn’t create the vial,” he says. “Hybrids are cunning. She could have masked her work.”
“Then test the vial,” I say, stepping forward. “Trace its origin. Find the maker.”
The seer nods.
The chanting deepens.
The vial glows.
And then—
It splits.
Not into two.
But into *three*.
The synthetic blood.
The magic residue.
And a third—faint, but unmistakable.
Vampire essence.
Old. Powerful. *Familiar*.
“The maker,” the seer says, voice sharp, “is Maeve Thorne.”
The Chamber holds its breath.
Maeve doesn’t move.
Just stands there, her face pale, her eyes wide, her hands clenched at her sides.
And then—
She laughs.
Soft. Cold. Like ice cracking.
“You think this is over?” she says, stepping forward. “You think you’ve won?” Her eyes flick to Kaelen. “You’ll never be free of me. And you—” She turns to me, her voice dropping to a whisper. “You’ll never be enough.”
And then she’s gone.
Not running.
Not retreating.
Just… gone. Like mist dissolving into stone.
—
The Chamber empties fast.
Guards escort Cassian out, his face dark, his silver robes trailing behind him like a shadow. The seers pack their vials, their voices low. The Councilors murmur as they leave, their glances sharp, their loyalty shifting.
And then—
It’s just us.
Kaelen and me.
Standing in the silence, the bond humming between us, warm and alive.
He doesn’t speak.
Just turns to me, his gold eyes searching mine.
And then—
He reaches for me.
Not to pull me close.
Not to kiss me.
But to *hold* me.
His arms lock around me, pulling me into his chest, his breath warm against my neck, his body a wall of heat and muscle. I don’t resist. Don’t pull away. Just let him hold me, my hands fisting in his coat, my face buried in his shoulder.
“You believed me,” he says, voice rough.
“Of course I did.”
“Even when they said the vial was mine?”
“I knew it was a lie.” I pull back, looking into his eyes. “Because I’ve *felt* your blood. I’ve *tasted* it. And if I’d ever poisoned anyone—”
“You’d have used your own hands,” he says, voice low. “Not a vial. Not a lie. You’re not a coward.”
My breath hitches.
And then—
He kisses me.
Not hard. Not desperate.
Soft. Slow. *True*.
His lips move over mine, gentle, reverent, like he’s afraid I’ll break. My hands rise, fingers threading through his hair, pulling him closer, deepening the kiss. The bond flares—white-hot, electric. Our pulses sync. Our breaths tangle. The world narrows to the taste of him, the feel of him, the *need*.
And then—
I pull back.
“If she was willing to fake a pregnancy,” I say, voice low, “what else is she capable of?”
He doesn’t answer.
Just holds my gaze, his voice rough. “Whatever it takes to destroy us.”
“Then we stop her first.”
“How?”
I touch the bond sigil on my chest. “By using what she gave us. The truth. The ring. The bond.”
He studies me—my sharp jaw, my defiant eyes, the fire in my blood. And for the first time, I see it.
Not just the avenger.
Not just the assassin.
But the queen.
Strong. Fierce. Unbreakable.
And she’s his.
“Then we move,” he says, voice low. “But we do it smart. We do it quiet. And we do it *together*.”
I don’t smile.
Just nod once.
And then—
I reach for his hand.
Not to fight.
Not to run.
But to *stay*.
And he takes it.
Because for the first time in two hundred years—
He doesn’t want to be the monster.
He wants to be hers.
—
Later, in the war room, I find the file.
Hidden in the encrypted archives. Buried beneath layers of Council records. A single document—dated the night of my mother’s trial.
The vote.
Not the forged one.
But the *real* one.
And there, in Kaelen’s hand—
“Against exile. For mercy.”
My breath stops.
He tried to save her.
He *voted* to spare her.
And Cassian—
He forged the decree.
He sealed her fate.
And now?
Now I know the truth.
Not just about Maeve.
Not just about the lies.
But about *him*.
He’s not the monster.
He’s the man who tried to save my mother.
And if I kill Cassian—
It won’t bring her back.
But it might let me finally *live*.
I close the file, pressing it to my chest, my breath coming fast.
And then—
I whisper, so low only the bond can hear:
“If you touch her again, I’ll kill you myself.”
But I don’t mean Maeve.
I mean *me*.
Because if I let myself love him—
If I let myself *choose* him—
Then I’ll never be the woman who came to kill him.
And that might be the most dangerous thing of all.